Cut the Cord
by yousopugly
Summary: He feels like a balloon. He knows it's only a matter of time before he shrivels completely and then he'll fall downwards, picking up speed until he lands in a mangled heap on the rocks below.
1. Chapter 1

He feels like a balloon. He's been drifting, always drifting, since middle school when he suddenly didn't fit into the world anymore, when he stopped making his parents proud. Kurt had momentarily grabbed hold of him as he floated by, attaching a string onto him so he wouldn't drift off again, grounding him for the first time since he was a kid. But then Kurt had had too many new, exciting things to grab hold of in New York and suddenly he'd been fumbling with the string as it slipped through his fingers. One gust of wind and he'd let go of Blaine completely.

So now here he is, drifting alone again, trying not to think about what's below him. He can feel the air leaking out of him, too slowly to notice unless someone was_ looking_. But nowadays, no one is; they just stare right through him. He knows it's only a matter of time before he shrivels completely and then he'll fall downwards, picking up speed until he lands in a mangled heap on the rocks below. The string that had once felt like an anchor will twist around him, choke him until there's nothing left. Ironic that a lifeline will ultimately destroy him.

The thing is, though, he knows it's his own fault. It's too draining to pretend otherwise anymore. He might as well have taken a pair of scissors and cut the string out of Kurt's grip himself. Sometimes he thinks he did. His parents always did tell him that he brought these things on himself, that if he just tried _harder_, these things wouldn't happen to him. He deserved everything he got and they were tired of him. He doesn't blame them; he's tired of himself.

Somewhere along the way, he has forgotten what he is fighting for. The fake, bright smile that he used to put on only for performances has become the only smile he knows how to wear. It's painfully unnatural to him whenever he catches fleeting glances of himself in the mirror or in pictures, yet no one else seems to notice. Or perhaps he has distanced himself enough that they simply no longer care. He vaguely registers that this revelation ought to sting but, as usual, all he feels is numbness—starting somewhere in his chest and spreading out towards his fingers and toes. It had terrified him at first; now, he likes it.

As he sits there on his bed and stares at the wall (completely blank, all the posters and pictures long since torn down), he wonders for the billionth time why he still insists on drifting like this? Why he doesn't just stick a pin in himself so all the air rushes out faster? _Why doesn't he just end it?_ At first he'd dismissed them as stupid, rash thoughts and then, as they'd become more appealing, he'd convinced himself that he was far too much of a coward to actually go through with it. But if he has nothing more of himself to lose, no one else left to hurt, what's the point of his body even being there, wondering around in a useless, never-ending routine?

He gets up slowly, stretches his arms above his head and relishes the small, satisfying crack of his shoulders. As he empties all the little pills from the bottle he'd found in the bathroom cabinet onto his desk, lining them up in neat rows of four, he feels so calm; the calmest he's felt in months, really. Once they're arranged in a perfect formation, he debates which row to take first. He selects the one furthest away from him in the end and pops it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue before swallowing it down, chasing it with a gulp of water. He vaguely registers his phone buzzing on his nightstand but he's too transfixed by the tiny dots on his desk to pay it any attention. They're so small, yet so powerful; he is in awe of them. He pops another in his mouth, then another, and another after that. His phone vibrates again, persistent, and he wonders if he should have said goodbye to people, or at least left a note. But then, who would really care? They'd only try to stop him out of moral obligation and he's too tired to get into that argument. Besides, he refuses to be a burden for a moment longer. Isn't that the point of all this?

Shrugging to no one, he swallows three more pills in one go, not even intermittently swigging back water anymore; he likes the way they stick in his throat slightly, a barely-there scratch. Ten more and he starts to feel drowsy so he scoops up the remaining little ovals in his hand. He curses under his breath when he realises he has ruined the pattern and _isn't that just typical?_ He shoves the whole handful into his mouth before he can ruin anything else; this time he has to take a gulp of water to physically make himself swallow them all.

Lying back on his bed, he rolls onto his side and stares at the empty wall again. He wishes his life was a blank canvas too, wishes he could start over. But he can't and this is the next best option. As he slips unconscious, his eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord, he feels relief trickle through him. He doesn't have to disappoint anyone anymore; he can stop feeling numb and just fade away into nothing.

He has been a balloon for far too long; he's sick of it. He wants to fall to the ground already and if he has to give himself the final shove, well, so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

It's three AM when Kurt gets the call. He's just got in from a fundraising party at which seemed to have succeeded in its aim of getting as many of the rich investors drunk as possible. He lost track of how many cocktails Isabelle had shoved into his hands after the second one so, sue him, he may be a little drunk as he stumbles through the door. He tries to close it quietly behind him (Rachel gets angry if he interrupts her beauty sleep, despite her and Brody's disregard for _his_) as he slides his phone out of his jeans pocket, a difficult feat when they're the tightest pair he owns. Cursing under his breath as he almost drops it, he toes of his shoes and then glances at the screen. He promptly panics when he sees his dad's name flashing up at him. There are only two reasons his dad would be calling at this time of night; either he is hurt (Kurt's mind flashes to heart attacks and ambulances) or someone else in the family is. He presses the 'answer call' button so fast, his finger nearly slips and declines it.

"Hello?" He says breathlessly, a brick of foreboding cementing itself to the lining of his stomach.

"Kurt?" It's his dad's voice and although it sounds off, slightly shaky, there's no trace of physical pain in it. That does little to reassure Kurt. He roughly yanks the curtains shut around his bed, no longer caring if he wakes Rachel.

"Yes, dad, what's wrong? Is it your heart, have you had another—"

"Woah, Kurt, slow down. I'm fine." Kurt feels his breath leave him in relief, yet his heart doesn't stop pounding. Not yet. "But, um, look, there's no easy way to say this—"

"Oh God, it's Carol isn't it? Or Finn, he's been a clumsy idiot and crashed his car, hasn't he?"

"No, Kurt, they're fine. Will you please just calm down and let me finish?" His dad's voice is controlled, but there's still an edge to it that's causing the brick to roll over inside him. He bites his bottom lip to stop himself from interrupting again, not noticing or caring when he tastes blood.

"It's Blaine." Kurt's stomach feels like it drops out of him and he leaps up as soon as his dad says the name, an instinctual reaction of shock. He hadn't even considered it would be _Blaine_. "He—God—he tried to kill himself last night."

His dad's voice makes this weird little half-choking noise as he speaks, as if he's desperately holding back a sob. Kurt feels numb. He blinks unseeingly as the words whirl around his head, trying to process them.

"He…no, he wouldn't…he just—no!" The last word leaves his mouth as a shout and he can hear the rustle of sheets coming from Rachel's patrician but _he does not give a damn_ because Blaine has tried to take his own life and his dad is murmuring soft, soothing words in his ear and, God, when had he started sobbing? A million different emotions are swirling around inside of him, shock, guilt, anger, grief are all fighting for dominance, but the only thing he can focus on is the continuous chant of _'tried to kill himself'_ reverberating inside his head.

Rachel, looking sleep-mussed and grumpy stomps into his patrician, her silk pyjamas rustling too loudly for Kurt's ears, but her mouth snaps shut when she takes in the tears streaming down his face and the way he's clutching the phone to his ear like a lifeline.

"Kurt! What—Is it your dad, is he—?" She rushes over to him, hands trying to wrap around him and stroke his hair all at once. Kurt shakes his head dumbly and her eyes widen, hands clutching tighter.

"Finn?" She mouths and when he shakes his head again, she sinks down onto the bed next to him.

"Is he—Is he going to be ok?" Kurt chokes out to his dad in a lull between sobs. He needs to know, doesn't know what he'd do if—

"I don't know yet." His dad says truthfully and if _his_ voice is trembling, Kurt knows it's bad. "Carol was on the night shift at the hospital, that's how she found out, and she rang me ten minutes ago. I just know he overdosed on pain medication and passed out. He was found just in time and he's had his stomach pumped but—but they're struggling to revive him, bud."

"No!" Kurt says again; he's never felt so helpless. "He's-he's going to be ok…He has to be ok…"

"I know, kiddo, I know." Burt says soothingly but it provides no comfort. Kurt gets up and begins groping for his passport in the top draw of his nightstand. He has to get back to Ohio.

Rachel grabs him again and stops his movements at the same time his dad says, "Look, use that emergency card I gave you to get on the next flight home and I'm gonna hang up now in case Carol rings with news, ok? Do you have someone with you?"

"I—yes, Rachel, she's with me,"

"Good, ok. I love you, Kurt, and we'll get through this. I'll see you soon."

"I love you, too." He stutters out before ending the call. Rachel looks at him, practically vibrating on the spot with anxiety.

"Blaine?" She whispers. Kurt can only jerk his head in response, sobs ripping out of his chest again. He doesn't understand why Blaine has done this; he's talked to Finn, thought Blaine had been handling their brake-up fine. In fact, he remembers being slightly hurt when Finn had merely said Blaine was a bit quieter, a bit more reserved, than usual. He was angry that Blaine wasn't really affected while he, Kurt, felt as though he'd been torn up into a million pieces, scattered on to the floor and then clumsily picked up and reassembled, a few pieces missing. But clearly Blaine hadn't been fine. Clearly, he'd been the opposite of fine because even during those darkest moments on the first few nights after Blaine had told him, even when he thought his heart was broken beyond repair as he watched endless re-runs of Project Runway and cried into his ice cream, even then, he'd never considered taking his own life. What sort of pain did someone have to be in to try something like that? And why hadn't he contacted him, found out for himself how Blaine was doing? God, he'd never forgive himself if Blaine wasn't ok. Scratch that, he'd never forgive himself even if he was ok (and he had to be ok, damn it).

The next few hours pass in a blur of booking plane tickets and emailing teachers to tell them he'd be missing Monday's lessons and lectures, Rachel helping him pack because he's in no fit state to remember such inconsequential things as socks. She calls him a taxi to the airport but he doesn't really remember checking in or waiting in the departure lounge. He has a vague recollection of sitting on the plane, staring blankly at the seat in front of him, and knows he's probably going into shock because he still feels numb and can't focus on anything but _Blaine, Blaine, Blaine_ and how it's all Kurt's fault until he's racing up the stairs of the hospital, the elevator having taken too long to arrive.

He half-walks, half-runs through the doors leading to the corridor where Blaine is, the oh-so-slow lady on reception having given him directions. He jerks to a stop when he sees Carol conversing with a male doctor outside what he assumes to be Blaine's room, two more men standing outside it.

"Carol, is he ok? What's going on?" The words slur into one slightly as he rushes to get them out, but Carol seems to understand him, placing a comforting but firm hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the seats opposite the door. She forces him to sit down before perching next to him.

"He's better—more stable, but he'll need to be monitored closely over the next few hours and he has to remain under suicide watch indefinitely. Doctor Morton was just telling me they're hoping he'll wake up soon." Her voice is gentle and understanding, yet also matter-of-fact in that nurse-like way. Kurt nods and gets up, walking over to the door. But as soon as he approaches it, the men block his way, one of them smiling sympathetically at Kurt.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't go in. He's not allowed visitors yet, only his parents have permission to see him." The man (a security guard?) explains nicely. To Kurt, it sounds condescending.

"I need to see him," Kurt protests, but they don't budge. "I'm sure his parents won't mind, I'm his b-" He cuts himself off as he realises he doesn't even know what he is to Blaine now. Friend? Ex-boyfriend? Someone he used to know? Kurt sags a bit, feeling defeated and so, so useless.

He crosses back over to the chairs and sinks down heavily into one, resigned to waiting. Carol wraps an arm around him and he leans into her touch slightly, grateful for the warmth if nothing else.

It's another hour of numbness and frustration as his thoughts loop round in an endless slideshow and he tries not to let his anxiety grow into a fully-fledged panic attack. It isn't until early evening, once Carol has finally gone to get them both coffee, that the door opens, the security men stepping aside as Mrs Anderson walks out, her face pale and drawn, dark circles and smudged eyeliner around her eyes. Kurt has never seen her anything but completely made up and put-together, always in a skirt suit even when at home, as if poised to rush into work at a moment's notice. Often, she is waiting to do exactly that. Yet today, she looks exhausted and, well, a mess. That scares Kurt.

He rises shakily from his chair and steps forward slightly to get her attention. Her mouth opens when she sees him, eyebrows rising in recognition, and then she does something Kurt had never expected Mrs Anderson to do in her life: she hugs him.

"Oh, Kurt, I'm so glad you're here." She murmurs as her fingers clutch at his back. "He'll be thrilled to see you when he wakes up," She awkwardly withdraws her arms from round him, patting him on the arm.

"How—How is he?" Kurt asks, heart in his throat.

"He's…He'll be fine." She says after a pause, no conviction in her words, and then glances down at her hands before looking back up at Kurt. "Would you like to go and sit with him for a bit?"

Kurt nods far too quickly and she smiles weakly, gesturing to the door behind her. The security guards look annoyed but are clearly under strict instruction not to argue with Mrs Anderson so reluctantly step aside to let Kurt through. She pats him on the back one last time before walking through the main doors out towards the stairs, possibly to make a coffee run of her own.

He holds his breath as he pushes the door open, not quite sure what to expect. He feels too much of nothing when he sees Blaine's tiny form, so much smaller in the big hospital bed, and takes in the paleness of his usually-tan face, the drip sticking out of his arm and the faint bleep of a heart monitor.

He takes two more hesitant steps into the room, the door swinging shut with a soft click behind him as he stares at Blaine's emotionless face, and then he can't stop himself; he rushes to Blaine's side, gently capturing his hand between two of his own.

"Blaine," He says, somewhere between a moan and a whisper, bending down slightly to press his lips against Blaine's limp, cold fingers. He doesn't let himself think how they feel like a corpse's fingers. It's not until he hears the soft, awkward cough that he realises he's not alone; Mr Anderson is sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, arms folded across his broad chest as he watches Kurt.

"I—sorry," Kurt murmurs, carefully replacing Blaine's hand on top of the blankets , not missing the way Mr Anderson's eyes follow the movement. He hears him sigh and prepares himself for some homophobic comment but it never comes. Instead, Mr Anderson just sighs again, rubbing his hands over his face and then tugging on his hair in a very Blaine-like gesture.

Kurt draws a chair closer to the bed and sits as close as he can get to Blaine, his knees digging into the side of the bed. He doesn't speak again, not out loud anyway, but he never takes his eyes off Blaine's face. The lump that seems to have taken up permanent residence in his throat swells until he thinks he might suffocate. He knows that face too well, and yet he feels like he doesn't know it at all anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Blaine notices is that he's no longer drifting, but neither is he lying deflated on the ground. He's caught somewhere in between, a makeshift string haphazardly attached to him to stop the falling, just enough air pumped into him to keep him suspended in this limbo state. The second thing he notices is the dull, pounding ache in his head and the soreness of his stomach. Then he registers the bleeping inextricably associated with hospitals.

His eyes try to fly open but can't, instead fluttering uselessly against the brightness. When the dancing black spots eventually fade, he sees a white ceiling with a high heel-shaped stain in the corner. He turns his head to the side slightly, wincing when his brain seems to rattle inside his skull, and his eyes meet his father's where they're fixed on his face. He almost feels guilty when he takes in the dark circles shadowing them, but the friendly numbness has returned and quickly puts a stop to it. Its then that he notices that someone else is sat near him and turns his head the other way to see Kurt—_Kurt_—perched much closer than he'd expected.

"Hey, you," Kurt says softly, but it doesn't sound like Kurt. It sounds like desperation.

Blaine's about to reply when he realises he has nothing to say. What could he possibly say to right such a long list of wrongs? _I'm sorry I cheated on you. I'm sorry I tried to kill myself. I'm sorry I failed. I'm sorry I've disrupted your life-again- with my stupid melodrama. I'm sorry I'm such a burden. Why don't you hate me? _P_lease hate me. _

Kurt takes his hand in his, interlocking their fingers together, and doesn't even pull away when Blaine doesn't respond, his fingers remaining lifeless. Blaine's certain that if it weren't for the numbness he would be crying by now and he almost misses the hot burn of tears as they crawl out of his eyes. Kurt doesn't speak again, and neither does Blaine's father, all three of them staring at his and Kurt's interlocked fingers.

His father gets up after a moment and walks out the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He returns soon after, accompanied by a doctor and his somewhat hysterical mother.

"Oh, my baby, I've been so worried!" She sobs, rushing over to the bed and wrapping her arms round Blaine in an uncharacteristic show of affection. The movement causes Blaine's hand to slip out of Kurt's grip. He buries his head in his mother's neck and inhales the familiar scent of her perfume, allowing himself to be comforted by the illusion of childhood innocence. She hasn't called him 'baby' since he was ten. When she finally pulls away, Kurt has gone.

"How are you feeling?" His mom asks, placing a shaking hand on his forehead. Blaine looks at her, but still has nothing to say. He wishes he'd succeeded, wishes he was lying blissfully unaware on his bed and never had to find anything to say ever again. _Why do I fail at failure? _He wonders, closing his eyes so that he can see nothing but black once more. The doctor does her various tests, checks his physical symptoms and asks him questions he doesn't know the right answers to. After a while, he simply ignores her. Instead, he counts his inhales, each one forcing more air into his lungs, air that he shouldn't be using but somehow is.

He still feels like a balloon, only now he's got a gash in his side that can never be undone. He has been haphazardly patched up, before the last wisps of air could drift out of him. But, really, who were they kidding? It is only a matter of time. They don't care whether he's shrivelled and lifeless, a rubbery mess on the floor—No, as long as he doesn't disintegrate completely, as long as he doesn't hit the rocks under their watch, they're perfectly content for him to be as broken as he likes. He feels sleep dragging him downwards again, not quite down enough, but it'll do for now. He thinks about nothing and hopes that the puncture will rupture while he's asleep. Not much longer, he promises himself, maybe you can rest soon.

It's dark when Blaine wakes again, but he can make out Kurt's silhouette next to him, his magazine long since discarded on the floor. Kurt's murmuring fragmented sentences to himself, presumably not aware that Blaine is awake. He only hears little snippets when Kurt's voice rises in volume slightly.

"…and I should've done…fault…didn't realise…you hate me…"

"I don't hate you." Blaine speaks before he even realises his lips are moving and digs his nails into his palm when he hears Kurt inhale sharply.

"Then—then why wouldn't you look at me properly?" Kurt asks, his voice so quiet as if he's scared of startling Blaine, of chasing him off.

Blaine wants to say that he's looking at him right now, but he doesn't. "I don't have anything to say." He answers instead, truthfully.

Kurt doesn't speak again for a long moment, presumably contemplating Blaine's statement. "Ok," he says eventually. "That's—ok."

"Sorry," Blaine says, unsure whether he's apologising for his lack of words or something—everything—else.

Suddenly, Kurt's cool fingers are touching his again, only now they're forcing them to uncurl. It's only once he's managed it that Blaine notices the warm flecks of blood on his palm from where his nails have been digging in too hard. He thinks he should find the little red crescents beautiful, but he doesn't; they're ugly little smiles smirking up at him, aware of their victory.

Kurt sighs and Blaine rolls over, facing the empty wall instead, cradling his injured hand with his other one. He doesn't speak again and after a moment, Kurt picks his magazine up and slips quietly out the room. Blaine wonders if this will be the time he doesn't come back.


	4. Chapter 4

Kurt does come back.

He comes back at least twice a day for the next three days, looking paler and paler each time but always impeccably dressed (_there's never an excuse for bad fashion choices, Blaine!)_

It is Blaine's favourite part of the day when Kurt tentatively opens the door to his room, as if afraid of what he'll find on the other side, and Blaine gets to fix his eyes on Kurt's studded sweater, or the scarf that Blaine is certain he's never seen before (a gift from a new boyfriend, perhaps?), or the lace-up boots that make comforting little scuffing noises when Kurt walks. He enjoys them so much, those few, precious seconds of innocence when he can appreciate Kurt's fabulousness from afar, as if for the first time. It's such a shame that the actual visits themselves are always his least favourite part of the day.

He dislikes the awkward silence that squats around them until Kurt settles on today's chosen small-talk topic; more often than not, it's the weather, or tales of customers at Burt's tire shop, neither of which interests Blaine in the slightest. He hates the way Kurt's fingers fiddle incessantly with his clothing, destroying what little magic it held for Blaine when he'd first entered. Kurt used to hate it when people fidgeted. He detests how Kurt asks every half hour whether he can get Blaine anything, a coffee perhaps? It's always on the tip of his tongue to tell Kurt that what he'd really like is a new life or, better yet, to not exist in the first place, but he knows it would be futile, cause Kurt yet more unnecessary upset. But the thing that gets to him the most, the thing he can't _stand_, is the look in Kurt's eyes when they flicker over his face, so uncertain, as if they're trespassing somewhere they're not allowed. It's not so much the pity in them; he is used to that by now, his mother and father haven't stopped looking at him in pity since he woke up. No, it is the hard, almost imperceptible fear in them that makes his stomach roll and his palms sweat, his fingers itching to dig into his palms.

Kurt is afraid of him.

On the fourth day, Blaine is certain he's about to go insane—more insane, he reminds himself humourlessly—if he's trapped in this purgatory for much longer. He feels claustrophobic, confined not only by the patronisingly white walls, but also by his own skin, and he longs to feel something other than stale hospital air, anything to remind himself he's human, that he doesn't have to live forever. That's why when the young nurse knocks quietly on the door before bringing in his lunch (she always knocks, though why Blaine has no idea, it's not like he has any more of his soul to cover up), he asks her when he is allowed to go home.

She starts, taken aback that he's actually speaking to her, before smiling broadly at him in such an overly-enthusiastic way that Blaine wonders whether she is genuinely one of those imperturbably happy people or whether she is putting on an act for his benefit. _Or maybe_, says a little voice inside his head, _maybe she's putting it on for her own benefit, sound familiar, Blaine?_

"Keen to be out, are we?" She asks, her voice light and melodious and so, so young. "I'll just pop and ask Doctor Kazaki for you, wait here a moment."

_What else am I going to do, jump out of the non-existent window?_ Blaine thinks sarcastically as the nurse places the tray down on his lap table and hurries out the room again. She leaves the door open this time, just enough so Blaine can make out the hustle and bustle of the hospital corridor beyond. He watches as an old man limps past with a Zimmer frame, two male nurses in blue scrubs jogging up behind him, clearly in a hurry. He observes the doctor entering the room opposite, catches a glimpse of a bed identical to his, the door clicking shut before he can make out a face.

His nurse re-enters a moment later, a coffee pot in one hand. "Good news," She sings, pouring Blaine a cup of coffee that he hasn't asked for. "You can go home tomorrow, if you'd like. Doctor Kazaki will just need to speak with your parents about a few things and have them sign the discharge papers, and then you're free to go!"

Blaine moves his mouth up into a small smile, his lips feeling dry and stiff.

"Thanks," He mutters, breaking his sandwich into small pieces like he always does, wondering if today will be the day he actually eats some of it.

He doesn't in the end, but he feels fuller anyway.

It is late evening by the time his father comes in, sitting gingerly in the seat next to his mom. He remains quiet for a moment, unconsciously twisting the wedding ring on his left hand. It looks too polished, too pristine, and Blaine whether he leaves it off more than he actually wears it. Either way, he's jealous of its shininess. He wishes he could be unblemished too, but he's been dropped in the sink too many times for that, mostly by himself, and now he's covered in thousands of little scratches, invisible unless someone held him right up to their eye. No one gets that close to him anymore.

"It's all sorted." His father says as his mother enters, rubbing his hands together as if he's just successfully completed a business transaction. Blaine wonders why his own definition of 'sorted' differs so completely to his father's. "I signed the papers and took the numbers for those psychiatrists the doctor recommended so you can go home tomorrow."

A feeling of foreboding creeps over him, constricting his chest.

"Psychiatrists?" He asks quietly, hating the tremble in his voice.

"Yes, sweetheart, Doctor Kazaki said you needed someone to talk things through with and I—"

"—You didn't want to be that person?" Blaine finishes viciously.

His mom freezes, her eyes wide and scared.

"No, not at all, honey, your father and I just think your needs are beyond us right now."

Blaine doesn't miss the way she includes his father in her statement. Safety in numbers.

"I'm not talking about my non-existent feelings with a complete stranger." He closes his eyes, wondering whether he can get the nurse to make them leave.

"Blaine, don't fight us on this." His father's voice is firm, unmoved when he speaks and Blaine's eyes reopen of their own accord. He suddenly feels uncontrollably angry.

"When have I ever fought you, dad? When have I ever done anything but obey your wishes?" he shouts, ignoring the footsteps of a nurse hovering outside the door. Of course, he knows the answer to his question as soon as he says it and it makes his blood boil; Blaine has always been the perfect son in every single respect except one: he's gay and, despite his father's best efforts, he can't change that fact. And he should know; he'd spent the better part of two years trying.

His father glares at him, disproportionately angry, and then strides out the room, shoving rudely passed the waiting nurse. His mother dithers for a second, like she always does, and then, giving him a sympathetic look, follows his father, like she always does.

Blaine feels like he's falling downwards again, but he's not deflating fast enough; he's going to feel it when he hits the ground, and it's going to hurt like hell. It already does.


	5. Chapter 5

Blaine had always been a passionate person. Yes, Kurt knew he was vulnerable and insecure, too; that much he had discovered when they'd begun dating and Kurt had stopped flat-out idolising him. But nevertheless, get him talking about why he enjoyed performing, or which were his favourite Broadway shows, or why he loved his brother so much, even though sometimes Cooper made him want to tear his hair out, or even what made him so angry with his father all the time, and Blaine's passion was undeniable. And that's exactly why Kurt finds his current apathy about everything so terrifying. Because he might have seen Blaine cry and scream and shout, might know exactly what to do in those situations, but he's never seen this total indifference to everything and, as a consequence, has no clue how to act around him. The worst part is that he's certain Blaine knows this, that he can tell Kurt is struggling and it's making the unrelenting tension that stretches between them even more painful. And Kurt knows better than anyone that things that stretch eventually break.

So, yes, he is terrified when he pulls up on the Anderson's drive the day after Blaine is released from hospital and walks up to the large, imposing front door. Mr Anderson opens it before Kurt can knock, and Kurt is grateful for small mercies.

"How nice of you to visit, Kurt." Mr Anderson says, standing back to let Kurt in, his stiff posture and forced smile suggesting the very opposite of his words. "You can go straight up—he, er, hasn't been down for breakfast yet."

Kurt nods and makes his way up the stairs, ignoring the fact that the clock in his car had said 1.37 when he'd arrived and that Blaine therefore had no intention of coming down for breakfast. When he reaches the top, Kurt stops to look at the picture on the landing wall (probably one of Mrs Anderson's 'priceless' masterpieces passed down to her from her father) where a group of shepherds wearing long, Biblical tunics seem to be squinting at him, their narrowed eyes conveying a sense of superiority despite their lowly occupation. He's suddenly very aware that he has always hated that picture even though he has never taken the time to properly look at it before.

He wonders what Blaine is doing shut up in his room by himself and various horrific scenarios, the majority containing excessive blood, fill his head as he crosses the landing and knocks on Blaine's door. When there is no reply, he knocks again, this time receiving a muffled "I'm not hungry."

Stealing himself, he opens the door slightly, wide enough to poke his head round and survey the room. Blaine is lying on his bed, still in pyjamas, face up on top of the covers, with his arms and legs spread out on either side of him. He looks like a child making a snow angel.

Kurt moves a bit further into the room, taking in the untouched water and toast on his nightstand and the overnight bag lying by the door, presumably abandoned when Blaine got in from the hospital yesterday. Kurt internally winces at the discarded items of clothing flung on the carpet, but he lets them be, unsure whether Blaine would want him to sort them out.

Blaine looks up, momentarily startled, and then he sees Kurt. Sighing, he rolls over onto his front so that his face is pressed into the duvet.

"Hi, Blaine," Kurt says cautiously, standing in the middle of the room awkwardly. "I just came to see how you were today…" He trials off, aware how stupid he sounds.

Blaine rolls his head to the side long enough to mutter, "I'm doing wonderfully today, Kurt, a night in my own bed did the trick!" in a bitingly sarcastic voice, before turning it back into the duvet.

For a moment Kurt is so taken aback by how Blaine-like the remark is, that he moves towards the bed, as if being physically pulled, and perches on the edge, carefully placing a hand on Blaine's pyjama-clad back. He's brought back to reality when Blaine flinches so badly that the whole bed shakes and quickly removes his hand, apologising without really knowing what he's sorry for.

_I'm sorry I tried to touch you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry you don't trust me anymore. _

"I brought the latest issue of Vogue with me. I mean, it's not even officially published yet but Isabelle let me have a copy so I could be even more ahead of trend than I already am—God, I love that woman—anyway, I wanted to show you how _divine_ the new Marc Jacobs collection is because, honestly, I was speechless when I first saw it. I think you'll love it." Kurt stops when Blaine doesn't reply, his face resolutely pushed into his duvet, his upper body shifting slightly as he breathes.

"Or, um, or I could go and make you some of my renowned turkey sandwiches?" he tries again. "Your dad said you hadn't had breakfast yet so I could do a sort of lunchtime brunch?"

Blaine remains silent, doesn't so much as turn his head and suddenly Kurt feels like the ceiling is lowering on them. As if someone is pushing it downwards, it gets steadily closer to the top of their heads and soon, if he remains sitting here like this, it's going to descend far enough to engulf them, breathing swirling whiteness swirling around until they are dissolved into nothing. And even as Kurt feels the dizzy, rapid breaths of a panic attack coming on, he knows he can't let the ceiling consume them. He just can't.

He gets up too fast, the room slightly out of focus, and almost trips over Blaine's discarded jeans as he walks to the door. He doesn't even notice whether he closes it behind him or not, he only knows he needs to get away from the confines of the fog-like ceiling.

As he crosses the landing, the disparaging eyes of the shepherds follow him, wondering why he fears whiteness so much when, to them, it is merely a deliverer from evil. Suddenly, Kurt feels a profound sympathy for the shepherds.


End file.
